goodbye to all that
by but we lost ourselves
Summary: it was hard for her to think of the wide-eyed hopes of her twenty-somethings as a loss, but she had four years left of the greatest decade of her life, and she was getting old. the city wasn't for dreams anymore. at least not for hers. / the one that proves that sometimes, going back home is the best, if only so that you can remember who you are.
1. central park revelations

a/n: if you read any of my work at all, you know that i have a love-hate relationship with new york city. this is the hate. this is also only the first chapter of something new that i have floating around in the back of my head, which involves a lot of cider and a certain smirky individual, but also a lot of learning when we finally have to grow up. let me know what you think, and if i should continue. much love, inez.

" _It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with a clarity that makes the nerves in the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my finger upon the moment it ended, can never cut through the ambiguities and second starts and broken resolves to the exact place on the page where the heroine is no longer as optimistic as she once was…_

 _Part of what I want to tell you is what it is like to be young in New York…I knew that it would cost something sooner or later—because I did not belong there, did not come from there—but when you are twenty-two or twenty-three, you figure that later you will have a high emotional balance, and be able to pay whatever it costs…"_

 _-Joan Didion, "Goodbye to All That"_

She wasn't completely sure when it all dissolved, but went something like this: she was walking down Central Park West one day, and trying to pretend like she belonged there; like she wasn't an outsider in every way, even though the barista at her local corner coffee shop had known her name for a year now. Men in suits shoved past her, women with strollers, teen girls who should have been at school, but they were on some trip with their choir-slash-band-slash-theater-troupe and they were performing for five minutes in some lesser known concert hall, a back alley of Carnegie, and she realized that she had begun to think of life in terms of back alleys of Carnegie, and she began to hate herself.

Her apartment was tiny, but it was bigger than most, by city standards. The cast of _Friends_ tells every aspiring twentysomething lies about what the realities of living in the city that never sleeps. She thought back to her twentieth year, about large, high-ceilinged villas in Italy, about winding side streets with cobblestones and hide-and-seek views of renaissance basilicas, and there, on Central Park West, boots stained with the street slush of December's Christmas snow, she cried.

She was flying home in three days—not to Italy, no, that was only home for that short while, and well, we all know how stories about escapes to Italy turn out—and for once, she was ready. Her mother would cry on Christmas Eve, her aunt would bring her newest boyfriend of three weeks, who wouldn't know how to carve a turkey, and she would wonder when her life had become a series of purposeful evasions, and how she desperately depressed she must have been to want to revert to those holiday memories, and to not mind one bit.

There, on Central Park West, she cried harder, and got more strange looks, and jaywalked across to the park, collapsing on the nearest bench that was not claimed by stay-at-home mothers gossiping about their husbands' newest job prospects or sketching young artists or homeless men with garbage sacks as defense against the lingering snow flurries.

It was a gloomy day in New York, even at Christmastime.

She wished for cider, fresh from apples from her childhood best friend's orchard. She wished for boots that didn't pinch her toes for sake of New York style. She wished for meals other than Thai takeout and that she hadn't believed she'd find a fifth-floor walkup in Chinatown or Little Italy with a neighbor with exceeding charm and a handsome, tall build. She wished, for once, that she hadn't been too busy telling herself stories to notice the truth of it all.

She didn't have a terrible job. She was the secretary to the secretary to the personal assistant of some editor or another of Harper's, or something like that.

Something like that. She should have been teaching in an inner-city school in the Bronx, or working for a nonprofit, or doing photojournalism, like she'd always dreamed of—she'd dreamed all of those dreams, but never of being a secretary to a secretary to a personal assistant, no, never that one.

At some point, don't all things like dreams fragment, though? She would say so. Yes, certainly. She'd swipe violently at her tears while sitting on the bench in Central Park, and she'd warn each of those young artists to not pour the entire depth of their souls into something in a city that eats people alive.

New York City is for the young and bright-eyed, Joan Didion once said.

New York City was not for her, then. Not anymore.

She realized while she was packing up her final bag and working on her letter of resignation—immediate; secretaries of secretaries of personal assistants are so disposable in New York that they don't need to submit a proper two weeks' notice, even at Harper's—that she was depressed.

She didn't know why she hadn't known earlier. She'd barely been dragging herself out of bed and into her cigarette pants for months now. The subway to Midtown got more and more wearisome by the day. Her refrigerator was as empty as the day she had moved in. Nothing she packed into her three suitcases seemed especially relevant.

Cigarette pants? What would she do with _those_ in rural Virginia? That Gucci tote that her boss's boss gave her for Christmas last year? She'd used it once, then been afraid of it, and had exchanged it for the hand-me-down leather tote that her aunt had gotten from Madewell some five years ago. If anyone in Roseville, Virginia saw her carrying a Gucci purse, they'd never forgive her. Honestly, maybe she'd never forgive herself.

Did she need the pictures of her and her first-year-in-New-York roommates all out on Broadway at eight at night one of a hundred times, in cocktail dresses meant to attract the Ryan Goslings of the Melting Pot? She hadn't spoken to them since their lease was up and their landlord decided to sell out to someone doing sort of renovation experiment that they couldn't afford to be a part of. They'd all found their Ryan Goslings, had affairs, and been divorced by now, anyway. All but her. She'd gotten invitations to the first weddings, but not the seconds, and that reminded her, she should really throw out those invitations. Why had she held onto them all these years?

Why had she held onto any of it all these years?

It was a question that wasn't to be answered by her. We can rarely answer those types of questions for ourselves. But we'll get to that bit later. Much, much later.

She kept them anyways—the cigarette pants, the pictures. She gave the Gucci purse to the woman in the apartment across the hall from her, wished her well—she was the secretary to the secretary to the personal assistant of some advertising executive for Trump, and we all know how tempestuous that organization can be. She'd need all the Gucci she could get.

She gave her lamp to the little old lady who had a knack for collecting those sorts of things for the tables of the only family-owned coffee shop in her area. She willed off her sparse, secondhand furniture and pots and pans to the next renters of the shoebox apartment.

She walked to Times Square, to the Met, to the doors of the New York Times offices, and said her goodbyes. No one heard her.

Then she left.


	2. it's a long way home

**a/n: thank you thank you thank you to all of the kind reviews. they've made my holidays merry and bright. happy thanksgiving to all, if you're back in the states. if you're not, eat, drink, and be merry anyway.**

 **comment your comments, and what you're thankful for this year, and hey, something else you'd like me to know.**

 **a comment for a comment: most of this was written during my anthropology course. this year, i'm thankful for old friends and new adventures and for having a big-girl home to welcome my family into for thanksgiving dinner. after nine years of dance injuries, tears, and performances, tomorrow i retire my sequins and my jazz shoes for good.**

 **happy reading and much love. -inez**

" _Chapter One:_

He Adored New York City.

He idolized it all out of proportion...

 _no, make that:_

he -

he romanticized it all out of proportion.

 _Yeah_.

To him, no matter what the season was,

this was still a town that existed in black and white

and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.

 _Uh, no let me start this over._

 _Chapter One:_

He was too romantic about Manhattan,

as he was about everything else. _"_

\- Woody Allen, _Manhattan_

There was something unspeakably sad about driving back towards the home of her Girl Scouts and Bible School and high school prom days.

It came in waves of emotion and failed detachment, driving the green, windy roads back into the South, past little houses, front yards full with Christmas lights and the cars of four-generation families, converging in a sort of tradition that would probably always endure in the small-town South.

Some part of her still saw the looks of flippancy on her mother and aunt's faces as they'd wished her a safe road home the last time she'd been back—it was the same part of her that wanted to roar that this little snow-spattered place on the edge of nowhere was the only place she'd ever known and ever _would_ know as home. A cold apartment in a cold city will always be just that—cold.

Some bigger part of her wondered, even now, especially now, as she drove back, car loaded down with failure, if she'd ever stop being the disappointment of the family. The disappointment of the entire town. The one who always couldn't wait to get away.

It was a strange sort of feeling, a sort of pushing and pulling as she tried to fit her soul back onto the shelves of journals that marked years and years of cheering for one team, loving one boy, singing hymnal hymns beside him every Sunday morning, and also years and years of dreaming of New York.

With every single part of her being, she pushed and shoved and tried to figure out what parts of herself she could stand to throw out. With every single part of herself, she wished that that town and that little church and that wonderful, kind boy had been enough.

And some days, even at Christmastime—especially at Christmastime, after life had fallen apart again, she resented God and all the powers that be for taking her out of Roseville, for showing her that there was more, for instilling in her some insatiable need to be a part of bigger places than stretch-forever-flat sunsets, early morning fog-covered orchards, and whole-county's-there county fairs.

It was the summer of 20 that it all set in. She'd been long gone from Roseville for a long time by then—she was in her sophomore year at NYU, and she wasn't looking back—and there was still a whole world out there for her to see. She'd had the money, the time, and so she would go.

She didn't tell him that she was leaving. It wasn't her obligation, she'd told herself as she held hands with another, younger city boy who promised Saturday mornings of strolls through Central Park and the security of inherited penthouses in Tribeca and kind words, but the insecurity of misunderstanding and knowing that everyone would always look at him and say 'why is he stuck with _her_?'

The first? His name was Zach, but she couldn't say much else about him—that would require too much introspection; too many disconcerting thoughts. The second? His name had been Josh, and he'd deserved better. He really did.

She dated Josh for two years—a whirlwind that she preferred not to think on too hard—and then she'd fled again, to Rome, to Paris, to London, and to one wild weekend in Sweden that involved a firefighter she met at a Christmas market, and God, how she regretted that entire journey, even though it had taught her who she was.

A tumbleweed. Cameron Ann Morgan was a tumbleweed, and the wind was blowing her back home.

As she braked around the final curve, and Roseville came into view, she began to wish that the wind had changed direction. But there she was, stumbling back into something and someplace she'd worked so hard to fly out of.

Isn't that how it always happens?

She sniffed, pretended that her eyes didn't burn, and drove on.

It wasn't warm in Virginia, but compared to upper Brooklyn, it might as well have been July in New Orleans. At least to her. She'd always hated the heat. It made her feel claustrophobic—smothered—like she would be caught in molasses for the rest of her life, destined to become the victim of all great Southern Small Towns.

She saw the lights before she even got into town—the square was always lit up this time of year, colorful bulb strands wrapped carefully around even the smallest, highest limbs of each tree, intermingling with the moss. She'd always wondered at how none of it caught fire. It was beautiful, all of it—always on the edge of burning.

The whole town was—actually _was_ torched in the Civil War—and hadn't been stable ever since.

 _"I'll put some records on while I pour…"_ Michael Bublé sang through the radio.

She turned it up and rolled another window down. It smelled like evergreen and smoke from the barbeque joint on the corner and _home_.

The streets were deceptively deserted; all of the parking spaces were full.

The door to the coffee shop opened, and out stepped a mirage from the past. He was even taller—broader, but she didn't look for too long—than she remembered, but she'd know that grin anywhere. He was with two women—one his mom, and the other certainly his wife. She looked away as he turned to look at her car passing.

This was ridiculous. They couldn't see her, and they wouldn't know her if they did. It wasn't as if she made returning to Roseville a habit.

A light rain started falling, and for a moment, she was surprised it wasn't snow.

She rolled her windows up. Jesus, it was hot in Virginia.


	3. sometimes pies were salted with tears

**a/n: it's beginning to look a lot like christmas (aka like my the house of my childhood, no more finals, and the shenanigans of my seven-year-old-brother.) thanks for sticking with me. it's been a long few months. please review, tell me about yourself, tell me what i'm doing right or wrong. you're the best, and they make my day. -inez**

"i have

what i have

and i am happy

i've lost

what i've lost

and i am

still

happy

- _outlook_ "

rupi kaur

The house was the same as it had always been; slightly-cracked white paint, sweeping wrap around porches and all. It was a sort of timeless staple that made it like every other main street house in small town Southern America.

Cammie loved it all over again immediately. It was everything that was opposite of New York—everything that the city hadn't been. Warm. Welcoming. Quiet. A ladder stood next to the eves of the second-story deck, colorful bulbs half-hung.

Joe was standing out in the yard, staring up at his work. He didn't turn as her headlights cut across the front yard. He didn't even move when she got out and slammed the door.

Her steps were slow, cautious across the yard, and she thought that this was getting ridiculous—there was no way he could still be contemplating finishing the lights or calling it a night. His golden retriever trotted over to sniff her hesitantly; the last time Cammie'd been around, he'd been a puppy.

"Looks good, Joe."

He grunted his agreement, or his disagreement. He was impossible to read; he always had been.

"Why don't you call it a night? It's dark. The last thing you need is to fall off a ladder and break your neck. Then what would mom do?"

He huffed, attempting to be amused, just to please her. He was good at that. "I'm a chief investigator at the FBI. I think that I can handle hanging up Christmas lights."

Cammie thought back to a few years ago, a colder November when he'd said the same thing, then slipped off the icy ladder and dislocated a shoulder. He'd popped it back into place himself, but in her mind, her point still stood. Joe wasn't getting any younger.

She told him as much, and he scoffed.

"You'd best head on inside. Your mother's been expecting you."

She wasn't blind; she was smart enough to know when she'd been properly dismissed.

As she walked up the front steps, she heard him moving the ladder further down to put up more lights.

It was good to be home.

The house was stiflingly warm, as always, and it smelled of burning pumpkin pie.

"Ma! Take your pie out!"

She kicked off her frosty shoes—maybe it was colder in Virginia than she first thought—and shrugged her puffy jacket off, winding her scarf around its hook on the coat rack.

Walking down the hallway was like walking through a time-warp. Everything was the same—the old hardwood creaked in the same places, the same pictures hung along the walls, the same echoes sounded off of the plantation-high ceilings.

She wondered how long she'd have to stay here before the ghosts really started to catch up with her.

The kitchen hadn't changed either. Its high white cabinets and wooden countertops were just the same. The antique appliances were still shiny, like new. There was a tiny Christmas tree in the windowsill over the farmhouse sink, twinkling with tinsel.

This kitchen was always Cammie's place of escape throughout her first eighteen years of life.

She had the strange feeling that this time around, eight years later, would be no different.

"Don't worry, I've got it," she called out to her mother, who was probably putting up the Christmas tree in she and Joe's room, completely forgetting about any sort of pie.

The oven wasn't smoking yet, which was a miracle in and of itself. The pie that she pulled out of the oven was more yellow than pumpkin-colored, and Cammie wondered, yet again, at how terrible her mother was at cooking, when her grandmother owned a bakery and Cammie had made extra money in the city by decorating wedding cakes on the side.

She sifted through the cabinets, coming up with an extra can of pumpkin and a can of PET milk, icing down water and cutting butter into flour as quickly as she could, smiling at the Christmas music drifting through the vents from downstairs, humming along to Martina McBride.

The dog—what _was_ its name again?—trotted up, sniffing at her legs like he wasn't quite sure what to think of her, then flopping down a foot away from her feet with his bone, content to keep an eye on this stranger who'd invaded his humans' house and was now taking it upon herself to save Thanksgiving.

Cammie searched in vain for a rolling pin—they'd had one years ago, but god, it had been so long. Finally, she gave up and tore the paper off of the can of pumpkin. She was anything if not an expert at making do.

As she rolled out the dough, she thought about a man in a Carhart jacket, tucked over a flannel shirt. About bright green eyes. About the blue eyes and the crisp, tailored suit jackets that she'd just run from. Maybe she shouldn't have driven through the square. She should have known better. This town was too small.

"If you roll that out any harder, you're gonna alert the whole house to your scheming."

Cammie jumped, the can clattering on the cabinet. It wasn't her mother, it wasn't Joe. Then she whirled.

"Abby!"

The older woman was leaning up against the island, smirking and looking as beautiful as ever.

"That's Aunt Abby to you, squirt."

Cammie couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out, couldn't help the way she both loved and resented the woman standing in front of her, looking perfect in a ponytail and a puffy vest. She made duck boots look classy.

"I'm twenty-six years old. That's older than you claim to be. I think that gives me right to call you what I want."

Abby's smirk widened into a full smile, and she pounced, gathering her niece up into a hug, flour and dough-covered hands and all.

"Cammie," she squeezed a little harder, a squeeze that made Cammie catch her breath and fight a sudden stinging sensation behind her eyes. "It's good to have you home."

Cammie squeezed back, thinking hard on the last time she'd felt so safe, so loved, as tonight, with a grumpy Joe and an absent-minded mother, and an aunt who still smelled like Chanel and nutmeg, just as she always had.

"You've been baking too, I presume?"

"Well, the difference is that I was _supposed_ to," Abby pulled back, tucking a piece of Cammie's car-wilted hair behind her ear. "We begged Rachel to leave it all to us this year, told her she was too busy with the schools' Christmas programs and all."

Cammie laughed, turning and continuing to roll out her pie crust. "Of course, she'd never listen."

"Well, no, but it seems you've got it all under control here."

Abby whisked over to a cabinet, grabbing two wine classes and a bottle of _cabernet_.

"Wine?"

"Always."

It was good to be home.

They worked in silence, Cammie braiding the pie crust and Abby putting on a pot of vegetable stew, both humming along to the music and chuckling at the occasional explicative that floated in from the front yard.

Joe clattered in, frosty-nosed and flustered, looking even more cross than he had when Cammie had arrived. The dog bounded up, excited to see his father.

"Down, Cavan."

Of course. He'd named the dog after that cartel he'd shut down. How could she have forgotten? It was such a _Joe_ thing to do.

"Something smells good. Did you tie Rachel up to keep her out of here?"

Abby snorted, then swatted him away as he started poking around, attempting to stick a spoon into the stew, peering over Cammie's shoulder at the roll dough she was working on the countertop.

"Jesus, I'm glad you're both home."

"Joe!"

"I thought that I was going to die of starvation there for a bit."

Cammie tried her hardest not to chuckle, but it was there, in the shaking of her shoulders, in the wink Abby sent her when she thought Joe wasn't looking.

"I've got a job for you," Cammie declared. "You need to dispose of this pie before Mom realizes that the good one isn't the one she baked."

"What? That's ridiculous."

"No, that's being a good daughter."

"See?" He pointed a finger between the two of them—the scheming stepdaughter and sister-in-law. "This is why she hasn't learned to cook. People always come behind her and fix things when she isn't looking."

Not that anyone was fooled—Joe was an expert at fixing things when Rachel wasn't looking. Like fixing her up with his best friend—Cammie's dad—when Joe was in love with her the whole time. Or like picking up her pieces one by one, year by heartbroken year, after Matthew died.

Joe was an expert at fixing Rachel. Ask anyone in Roseville and half of the members of the FBI.

"Did you straighten the angel on the tree this year?" Abby asked knowingly.

Joe just grumbled and grabbed the pie, heading out the back door with Cavan in tow.

Thirty minutes later, Cammie was trotting up the stairs, wondering what her mother was _doing_ to have not noticed all of the commotion down below. Dinner was ready, and as much as she loved Abby—really, she did—she just needed a hug from her mom.

There were some things that she never grew out of.

"Mom?" She stuck her head into Joe's study, that had previously been her dad's. The stereo was still playing Dean Martin, and touches of her mother were everywhere—the Christmas tree in the corner, the Nicholas Sparks books on the heavy oak shelves alongside Joe's Stephen King thrillers, the cozy afghan thrown across the cozy chair in the corner.

Cammie wanted to sit in the chair, snatch a book off the shelf, and snuggle up under the blanket to the smell of fresh-cut evergreen. She wanted to pretend like she'd never have to leave, to fall asleep and be woken up to the smell of earl grey tea on the lampstand beside her—to the sound of Rachel and Joe flirting while folding clothes in their bedroom.

She shook her head, switched off the stereo, and closed the door as she left.

Rachel Morgan was sound asleep on the master bedroom's huge bed, hair spilling out around her like a chestnut halo. And she would hate this, in the morning—having missed Cammie's grand return, having not been able to greet the prodigal daughter with a feast.

But Cammie's mom wasn't thirty anymore, though she probably still looked it, and Cammie could see the dark circles under her eyes, hear her deep breaths, sense how _tired_ Rachel was.

It hit her, all at once, in a tsunami wave of guilt and sorrow.

Ten years ago, today, Cammie's father had died.

How had she forgotten? How had she not known the moment that she'd woken up? How had she not sensed it, an ache in her bones that had appeared long before the this every other year since the accident?

Ten years.

Cammie knew better than anyone that, new husband or not, her mother didn't need to be woken up and reminded of that.

Some days just never got easier.

They ate stew around the breakfast nook table, Joe like a starved man, Cammie carefully, the roof of her mouth burnt, the rolls tasting like paper.

She'd forgotten. She'd been so wrapped up in her own worries that she'd forgotten.

Abby glanced between the two of them, wondering who—if anyone—was going to say something first.

It would be her. It would always be her.

"Matthew loved this stew."

Joe and Cammie just nodded, not even looking up from their bowls.

"Remember, he used to give Cammie a glass of red wine with it and say 'You can't appreciate the flavor without a good _cabernet_ , no matter your age.'"

Joe chuckled, but it was a hollow sound.

"Such a law-abiding agent, he was."

They sat for a bit longer, Cammie pretending to eat, Abby prattling on, attempting to fill the empty air with something, and Joe eating more than his fill, then rising abruptly, intent on finishing the lights, even at eight at night.

No one argued this time. Maybe he needed a distraction, too.

Cammie followed Abby back to the kitchen, scrapping her leftovers into Cavan's food bowl and making a new best friend in the process. She slumped to the floor, back against a cabinet, and petted the fluffy dog, ruffling his ears and scratching his belly.

Abby puttered around, cleaning up dishes, putting the leftovers into Tupperware, wiping the flour off of the countertops.

"Don't think you're fooling me for one second, Cameron Anne," she grumbled suddenly, wiping the water off of plates and placing them back into the cabinet.

"What do you mean, fooling you?"

"You drove home."

Cammie rolled her eyes, feeling like a teenager again, and wishing for an excuse to delay this conversation to any other day.

"Yes, and it was a long drive."

" _Mmhm_."

Abby kept drying, busying her hands, making excuses to stay until Cammie finally cracked, the way she always did around her aunt after a glass too many of wine.

She'd been set up.

She hated Abby.

"I thought it would be good to drive. My car doesn't see the road enough these days."

"Yeah? I'm surprised it sees the road at all, with the shape it's in."

That much was probably true—the Volkswagen that Matthew had bought her for her sixteenth birthday had been ten years old then. It was twenty now, and had nearly three hundred thousands miles on it.

"Yeah, well, Josh was a good enough mechanic."

Abby's grip slipped, and a cabinet slammed, making both Cammie and Cavan jump.

"Jesus, Abby."

" _He_ knows how to work on cars? In thousand-dollar suits?" Abby sounded like she wanted to laugh, but then caught herself. " _Was_ a good mechanic?"

"Well, I guess he still must be. He learned from his grandpa. Surprising, I know, but they didn't always have the money, you know." She gave Cavan one last scratch behind the ears and stood, brushing his shedding fur off of her black leggings. It was time to deflect.

"How does Mom keep the floors clean with you, Cav?"

"Uh uh uh." Her aunt wasn't being fooled—not in this. "Back up the gravy train. What's this about _was_ and _must be_?"

"The gravy train? Abby, that phrase is solely reserved to embarrass one Zachary Goode, and only on Thanksgiving Day."

"Zachary Goode is using past tense verbs as well."

Cammie shook her head, reaching for the broom in the mudroom, not wanting to think about what Abby meant by that.

"Why'd you drive, Cam?"

She wouldn't look up—couldn't, or she'd probably finally loose the tears she'd been holding in all day.

"I just needed the time to think. Plus, it was cheaper."

Abby scoffed. "With gas prices in New York? No way."

"I bought gas in Jersey."

"Still."

They were at a standstill, and she could feel Abby's eyes on her, watching and noting her every tell. Sometimes it really sucked to have so many family members in law enforcement.

"I left."

She didn't have to elaborate. Abby knew her well enough to know what she meant.

"What about your job?"

Cammie swallowed hard.

"I quit."

"What about Josh?"

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

"You know, Abby, can we not do this tonight?"

Her knuckles were white on the broom handle, and Cavan was up, pacing, recognizing his new friend's unease.

Abby was there, taking the broom from her, pulling her close, rubbing her back. Cammie realized that the tears had started to fall.

"Of course, squirt. We have all the time you need."

Cammie wasn't sure if any amount of time could ever be all the time she'd need. But this, standing in the kitchen of her childhood in the arms of one of the people she loved most in the world—this was a start. Maybe someday, she'd be brave enough to step out on her own again. But today wasn't that day, and she needed this, Abby, her house, her mother sleeping upstairs, Joe cursing outside, to ground her. To remind her of who she once was, so that she could figure out who she was now.

New York City would not break her. No, not now, not a thousand miles away in a kitchen smelling of non-burned pumpkin pie and beef stew.

Well, maybe it would. It had. But she could—would—be put back together again.


	4. the beginning of missing someone

**a/n: oh hey, thanks for stopping by. here's a post in celebration of my gpa surviving the semester from hell. also in thanks for your reviews. where's zach, you ask? gee, i guess we'll see. (hey, please let me know what you think so i'll know where to go with this. also it's the holidays and reviews make life merry and bright.) much love, inez**

 _"i like to see people reunited. i like to see people run to each other, i like the kissing and the crying, i like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can't tell fast enough, the ears that aren't big enough, the eyes that can't take in all of the change, i like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone._

 _"are you still mad at me?"_

 _"no."_

 _"are you sure?"_

 _"i was never mad at you."_

 _"what were you?"_

 _"hurt.'"_

jonathan safran foer

 _extremely loud and incredibly close_

It was strange, waking up in the bed of her childhood. Cammie hadn't slept poorly, per say, but the featherbed was just a little softer than what she was used to. She woke up early, when the first light cut through the long windows and across her bed. She grumbled—she was a grumbler, not a morning person in the least, and tried to settle back into the velvet magenta duvet that she'd thought was a good idea when she was sixteen.

It hadn't been then, and it still wasn't.

She flopped back against the pillows, surprised that she'd gotten any sleep at all, considering the events of the previous day, the way her chest and throat still ached from pent up emotion. There was a soft pawing at the bedroom door, then it creaked open, and Cavan trotted in, snuffling around the edge of the bed before hoping up and making himself at home half-on-top of her.

"Well good morning to you, too," she chuckled, pushing herself up to a sitting position so that she could scratch behind his ears.

This was nice—sitting, relaxing, not worrying about if her slim salary was going to cut the bills this month, hoping that her upstairs neighbors wouldn't have another loud fight and even louder makeup sex. Not wondering what she was doing and why she was there.

Well, that much was still true.

But that could wait—she had a couple of months before the security blanket of the holidays dissolved. She could figure out something before then—any job would be better than before.

There, in her childhood bedroom, she had a better friend in her stepdad's year-old puppy than she had in anyone in New York.

Well, anyone but one person, but she wasn't thinking about that.

"Well, good morning to you too, Cav," she scratched at his belly, and he rolled, tongue and tail wagging in satisfaction. "You're bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning."

She got a whine in response, and a sneaky lick to the face.

"Alright, alright," she chuckled. "It's time to get out of bed. No more lazy bones."

It took her five minutes to figure out how to work the new shower dial in the hall bathroom, and another three to find where the towels were now stashed—everything in that bathroom had been changed except the large, original claw-foot tub, and she found herself resenting it for unknown reasons.

She'd never been big on change. She'd never known why.

The sun was out, full and bright, by the time someone else rolled into the kitchen. Cammie was sitting with a bagel and the morning crossword, nails already stained with newspaper ink that she'd once hoped would be from her own words, then given up on when she realized that Times internships came with Ivy League diplomas and important last names, not hard work and talent.

Will Shortz had outdone himself on this one, that was for sure.

"Is that coffee that I smell?"

Abby fluttered into the kitchen on a wave of confidence, as always, and didn't hesitate to grab a cup and fill it to the brim. Cammie grimaced as she took a sip of the straight black liquid, then nudged the cream pitcher over towards her aunt.

"No thanks, squirt. I'm on a diet."

"A diet? It's creamer, Abby, not a donut. And you're, like, a size two."

Abby smirked, then glanced down at Cammie's work.

"Muscat."

"I'm sorry?"

"Twenty-two across. 'Gulf of Oman port.' Muscat."

Cammie rolled her eyes. "That would make sense, because Oman. Too bad I hadn't gotten there yet."

Abby just winked and went to claim her own bagel, grabbing the carton of eggs out of the fridge and rustling around for a pan.

"I have a job for you this morning."

"A job already? I just quit my last one two days ago."

Abby shot her a look. "I need a favor. With the Thanksgiving parade and all, I'm busy organizing floats and the carolers and I still have to finalize the Black Friday shopping guide before it goes to press tomorrow morning."

"Abby, I don't know that I know enough about event plan—"

"And I have to hold rehearsals for the Thanksgiving Play at the school."

"Sixty-eight down. 'French for 'No way in hell, Abby.'"

"Oui, j'adore aider ma tante."

"Abby est une pomplemousse."

Abby spun, iron skillet in one hand, stick of butter in the other. "A grapefruit? That's really the best you've got?"

Cammie raised an eyebrow. "It's been a while sense high school French. Forgive me if I'm a bit rusty."

Abby melted two tablespoons of butter into the skillet while whisking the heavy cream from the pitcher into the eggs.

"You're only forgiven if you run this errand for me. I promise you, it's not a big thing. You just have to pick something up."

Abby lied. This was a big thing.

"Cammie. Jesus. Cammie."

He stood there, staring, while she shifted, self-conscious, pulling at her sleeves like a nine-year-old again.

God, did he have to get more handsome with age?

"Hi."

It was really the best she could manage, and she wanted to die for so many reasons from that moment and from the twenty-six years that had led up to that moment.

She had a habit of these things, you understand. Deciding she had a story to tell right at the end of the big picture, really. But we'll catch up to that.

And she could have started over anywhere. Why had she come back here? To an obnoxious magenta duvet and a meddling aunt, and this—a six-four shadow lurking around every corner. There were too many haunted eyes in Roseville; she should have known that would be the case. She'd only caught this glimpse, and she already knew that his were the worst.

"Jesus."

"Your grandma would wash your mouth out with soap."

He didn't smile, though he knew she was right.

"I—" He stepped toward her, a hand reaching out. She dodged it, stepping back. "Shit, Cam, what are you doing here?"

"It's Thanksgiving."

"You drove. I can't believe that hunk of junk is even still on the road."

This was a safe topic. She took a deep breath.

"It's perfectly drivable."

"Cam. I zip-tied the bumper on ten years ago."

"Bumper viability doesn't affect drivability. And besides, it was your fault for… distracting me…while I was trying to back up."

"When's the last time you got your oil changed?"

He was pacing around her car now, kicking tires. Shaking his head.

"I don't know? A year ago, give or take six months?"

"Damn. Cammie."

"Are you waiting for an opportunity to say 'Fuck Cammie'? If you are, just get it over with. Fuck Cammie. There."

He gave her a look—the one he'd give her when they were younger, and she was annoying him when he was fighting off a migraine.

"Twenty-six and still as smart assed as at fifteen."

"It doesn't get any nicer than this. Are you done?"

He looked up from his inspection then, seeming to finally notice that she was actually there, and that this wasn't normal anymore.

"Excuse me?"

She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't stand listening to him pretend like ten years hadn't passed, like he understood her at all, like she knew him at all, like she had any business at all accepting his concern.

"I just need that cider. Abby needs it to spice before the Thanksgiving parade."

He looked like he'd been slapped, or stabbed somewhere deep and throbbing with betrayal.

"That's why you came here?"

She shifted on her feet, knowing her aunt's game and that she'd played right into it.

"Abby said she'd called."

"I've been in the brewery all morning."

He reached up, ruffling his hair like he always had, and Cammie fought the ache that twisted her insides into a mass of something between nostalgia and absolute sorrow. She hated herself for noticing the pull of his flannel as his biceps flexed, the subtle outline of the strength of his shoulders as he dropped his hands, looking seventeen with his hair in disarray.

He cleared his throat. She was staring. She'd looked away a second too late.

"Jesus, Cammie, I—"

She didn't like the expression in his eyes.

"You said that already."

"Right," he shook his head as if to clear some unwanted memory. Cammie could only imagine which particular skeleton had come out to play. "Yeah, of course. Come with me. How much did she need?"

She followed him up the steps of the farmhouse, noticing that the white paint wasn't as cracked as the last time she'd seen it, that the wrong boards squeaked as they walked across the front porch, that there were now peonies in the flower beds instead of the tangled mass of wildflowers that had been there in her younger days.

This was the exact opposite of her house—there everything was the same. Here, everything, even the man who inhabited it, was a stranger to her.

"I can't believe those are still alive." She toed at the boards of the porch as he kicked off his boots on the front mat.

It declared a bright, loopy 'Welcome, Ya'll.' She didn't feel like it meant it at all.

"What?"

She could have been talking about the peonies, or the familiarish cats, or anything, really. So she settled.

"Those." She pointed at the square-toed boots tilting haphazardly on their worn heels. The leather was scuffed and stained, and the outer sides of both sat lower, indicative of Zach's habit of rolling his weight onto the sides of his feet when bored or stressed or feeling insecure or anytime, really.

"Those are still perfectly good boots," he shook his head, and she couldn't tell if he was trying not to laugh or not to curse in annoyance. She couldn't read him that easily even when she'd known him better than anyone; now, she was hopeless.

The screen door squeaked on its hinge, and he stepped into the house while she just stood there, feeling like a vampire on a doorstep, knowing that she was the exact wrong person to want so desperately to be inside his house—inside his world.

"Are you just going to stand out there in the cold?"

"This is cold?"

"Jesus. Yes. Get your ass in here."

She toed off her chelsea boots at the door, already regretting how chilly they'd be when the time came for her to put them back on, and followed him in.

It was open, the farmhouse. Not cluttered with knickknacks, like it had been when his grandparents lived in the old home.

The walls were stripped of their faded wallpaper, and the shiplap behind was painted white on some walls, left stained on others. The old hardwood floors were still creaky, but everything here was that of a nostalgic minimalist—Zach, if he'd been a woman, maybe.

Zach's woman other-half. And Cammie supposed that it probably was that woman who had done this decorating.

It was warm. Simple and inviting. Cammie hated herself for loving it immediately.

"Come, sit." He gestured at the oversized furniture in the family room, melting into the nearest chair like he needed its support to not fall apart, himself.

She sat, and the silence echoed.

He asked if he could get her coffee, and she said no, and then he asked if she even liked coffee, as if he wouldn't know that about her anymore. As if that was something that changed, once the taste was initially acquired.

There were things, she realized as she was tucking her legs up under herself on his well-loved leather couch, trying to feign ease, that she wished could have changed so that she was at least a little different from the girl he'd known. The girl he'd loved.

The silence was ringing, and she thought that this must be it—what growing up really was. Not moving away from home, not getting a job and paying her own bills. At twenty-six years old, she'd done all of those things, but she'd never bothered to think that a mundane moment should be written into her life story.

Silence.

Yet, here it was.

Silence.

In reality, her life had been one long course of rising action, with nothing to rise to. Unless her grand climax had been at age seventeen, looking into a pair of green eyes and saying "my god, you're going to marry me if I can't find a way to get out of this godforsaken town, aren't you?"

Today, sitting on the couch, she looked across to the owner of that piercing emerald gaze, who was looking everywhere but at her, shifting uncomfortably in an armchair clearly not designed for those over six foot, much less four inches over.

He looked like his twelve-year-old self again, trying to cram himself onto the play-kitchen stools of her nine-year-old childhood, discontent without having any other playmates.

It almost made her chuckle, and then, when she recalled it again, how he still had the exact same furrow in his brow, she did.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing." She bit her lip to suppress her smile, and self-consciously tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear that was already tucked.

He was watching her unabashedly now; it was as if she'd given him excuse, and now that the opportunity was extended, he wouldn't reign his curiosity in.

She tried not to blush under his gaze, but she couldn't help it. He was probably the most intense person she knew—even more so than Joe. Anyone would wither under such scrutiny from Zach. And her hair was in a messy knot on the top of her head. And she was wearing her most well-loved yoga pants.

"So how's New York treating you these days? I don't think we've caught up in a while." His smile was forced.

"Never. We've never caught up," she bit her lip, trying to reign in her biting comments before they tumbled out and into something she'd regret.

A lock of his deep brown hair fell over his forehead, and she bit her lip harder for wanting to trace it back into place with her own touch.

He was not hers to want. Not anymore, and maybe he never had been.

"Really? Eight years really flies, I guess."

"Yeah, when you're off having fun."

Her nonchalance was as fake as his answering smirk.

"I don't know how much was had here," he leaned back into the chair as far as he could, which wasn't far enough to mask his obvious discomfort. He looked like a loaded spring. "Tell me about New York."

"What about it? It's big, it's loud. Yes, Times Square really is that bright." Cammie's tone was as droll as both of their expressions, and god, she wished that they could just cut through the bullsh—

He folded his hands over his knees to keep them from tapping, and Cammie wished that he would just get up and get the damn cider and let her get on with her day, which would no doubt include hours of planning just on how to avoid him in the future.

Her gaze caught where it probably shouldn't have, and she knew that she was staring, but she didn't care. His hands were broad—huge, even, rough with an honest living's work. And also bare.

"Last I heard about you, you were engaged," he drawled casually, forcing her eyes up to meet his again. She doubted she'd ever heard Zachary Goode drawl. They were from Virginia, sure, but he wasn't and never had been in the least bit Southern.

"Last I heard, you were married."

She raised an eyebrow, leveling a pointed gaze at his empty left hand. He returned the eyebrow raise, then clapped his hands against his knees and pushed himself up.

"I was. Was that cider Abby was needing?"

She sat, blinking hard for a moment.

"Yeah. Um. Yeah, it was the cider."

Now? Now, he'd choose to stick to business. Of course. Some things—some things about some people—never changed.

"Right. Okay. I'm sure you need to get going, so I'll grab it for you."

He disappeared through another doorway, into what Cammie knew was the kitchen. He didn't extend an offer for her to follow, so she stood and paced around the living room, burning off nervous energy by inspecting the fluffy afghans thrown over chairs and the pictures hanging on the walls, some familiar, some new.

Most were of a little girl that Cammie didn't recognize. She paused to inspect one more closely, then heard a crash and a curse from the kitchen.

"You alright?"

She backed away from her snooping and peeked through the doorway into the kitchen.

"Yeah. I was just grabbing Rachel a few jars of apple butter, too. She loves the stuff."

That was a lie, and they both new it. Rachel couldn't stand 'the stuff.' Cammie loved apple butter on her waffles. It was her favorite breakfast.

She bit her lip to keep from thinking too far into this small act of kindness.

"Thanks. I'm sure she'll… Just thanks."

Zach ducked his head, pushing two Mason jars into her hands and tromping back through the living room.

"Come on. Cider's in the barn storage."


	5. county lines are closing in on me

**a/n:** **hi lovelies. thank you so much for taking the time to read/review/favorite this lil journey. hope everyone had a wonderful christmas and new year** **'** **s! also, hope everyone is staying safe in all the winter weather. it** **'** **s crazy out there. i know that this is slow coming, so without further ado** **…** **actually one more ado. please review. (i** **'** **m a poet, too). much love, inez.**

"somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. he was afraid of what might come leaking out. he does something to me, that boy. Every time. it's his only detriment. he steps on my heart. he makes me cry."

markus zusak

 _the book thief_

Cammie left Blackthorne Farms not knowing entirely what had happened.

Zach had loaded her down with cider—quite literally, he'd given her three gallons at a time to carry, then grabbed an entire crate on his own to take to her car, only to realize that the crate itself wouldn't fit.

They'd moved and shoved and crammed until she'd gotten the amount Abby had sent her for, but sitting knee-deep in fancy apply juice while driving across town, Cammie could still smell his aftershave, feel the rough sleeve of his flannel as he lifted while she shoved, see the taught pull of the fabric across his muscular frame.

She glanced at the apple butter teetering precariously on the edge of the dashboard, shifting every time she stopped at a stop sign.

Surely, this had been some sort of peace offering?

She had several things to say to him, but she knew that for every one comment she made, he would have five, and that they would all be justified.

She'd never been good enough for him.

That had always been okay with her—even when she'd heard he'd met someone, put a ring on her hand, settled down. She'd only eaten four tubs of Ben and Jerry's after that news. It was a moot point compared to the ten she'd eaten after—well, after the incident.

But he'd been too good for her too, still.

She wouldn't think about either of them.

Especially not Zach, who hadn't said an unnecessary word to her after the apple butter incident.

He'd asked how many gallons. He'd not said a thing throughout the entire packing fiasco. Then he'd told her to tell Abby that it was pre-spiced, and to taste it before adding too much cinnamon. He'd banged a hang on the top of her Volkswagen, shook his head as if he was amazed that it didn't tumble apart immediately after, and turned on his heel, not even offering so much as a goodbye.

What had happened? She wasn't sure.

And so she drove.

First, to Abby's house, where she piled all of the cider right in front of the door—payback was, well, payback. Then through town, looking at all of the little shops, noting which ones had changed and which ones had stayed the same.

Really, she was scoping for job opportunities, and without much luck. The small bookstore on Main Street was now an appliance store. Four years of experience in the publishing business—well, sort of—wouldn't help her sell refrigerators.

She knew her other options. The post office. The convenience store. The Dollar General on the outskirts of town. The family grocer.

Worrying about it then wasn't going to help her.

Cammie parked in her mom's driveway, wrapped her yellow raincoat tighter around her shoulders, and took to walking.

The worst thing about living in Roseville, Virginia, was the lack of industry. The second worst thing was the permanent rivalry between the private school kids—Cammie'd been one, Zach hadn't, and they were probably the only two to ever cross over into enemy territory without things getting ugly.

The best thing about living in Roseville, Virginia, was the apples and the salt air.

The town wasn't centered around the docks—main street was maybe a mile away, but the old houses that made up the blocks between the hubs of activity were probably some of the most beautiful in the South. But maybe she was biased.

Roseville was like every other tiny town on the south-eastern seaboard. The port was mainly for fishing, and that's how a lot of the town made their living. The houses were large and white, and moss hung from the live oaks in a way that made things eerie, especially on foggy November mornings.

Each house she passed was a testament to days past—high ceilings, wrap around porches, topped with double and sometimes quadruple chimneys. The brick sidewalk was uneven and worn. All was quiet, probably because the fifty-degree chill stuck to the bones in the damp air.

She didn't stop walking until she was at the wharf, watching men mend their nets and dump their hauls, seagulls lurking in hopes of stealing breakfast. The morning catch was already in. Cammie felt like she'd been caught, too, stuck in a net that would eventually make her drown.

The briny air scratched at her cheeks as she squinted out at the grey horizon, searching for anything to ground her, to make her feel anything but trapped, yet adrift.

She thought back on the morning, on Zach's tanned and taught forearms as he twisted the jars of apple butter nervously on the counter. On his eyelashes catching on one another as he looked down and tried to avoid her gaze.

Every time she came home, he was there, a tape stuck on repeat in the back of her mind. And it wasn't that he was physically _there_. It was just his presence—Mrs. Dabney at the diner, mentioning that he'd repainted her sign for her; an advertisement for the seasonal community apple harvest; the Goode Performing Arts Center at Roseville School District.

She always thought of him, wondered about him, even when she never saw him. It was exhausting. Maybe that's why she'd stopped coming. She hadn't been back for more than a day or two in years. She'd convinced Rachel to visit New York instead a time or two, or they'd met up at Abby's apartment in D.C.

Anything to stay out of her hometown and away from that tape in the back of her head, playing green eyes over and over and over again.

She dug her nails into a wooden beam of the boardwalk, forcing her thoughts back to other things. She should have gotten Cav. He would have loved the morning walk, and he would've been the perfect distraction.

Cammie stood there for a few more moments, feeling a bit like she'd betrayed her new furry friend, but more like she'd betrayed some part of herself. She saw Grant, Zach's best friend since the second grade, gathering up nets with who she assumed to be his younger brother. Further down the boardwalk, a highway crew was repairing the potholes made by seafood stocking trucks.

"And so it goes," she murmured to herself, pushing off of the railing. Her mom would be up and about, probably worried sick about her daughter's whereabouts after not seeing her the night before. Cammie turned, heading west.

One step in, her foot caught a paving stone, and she stumbled back to keep from falling.

"Hey!"

She paused subconsciously at the deep voice and turned to find whoever was yelling.

"Cammie!"

It was Grant, bounding up out of his boat easily, like it wasn't floating on whitecapping waves.

"Cammie! I thought that was you!" He trotted across the dock to her, yellow rain slicker flapping around him. He opened his arms, as if to pull her into a bear hug, then paused at the last second.

"Oh shit, sorry. I forgot." His grin was sheepish, his eyes bright and open, always the exact opposite of his best friend. "I'm sure you don't wanna smell like fish for the rest of the day."

Despite herself—despite her alarm and worry and general awkwardness—Cammie couldn't help but laugh.

"Hi, Grant."

He laughed back.

"Damn, I thought I was seeing a ghost for a couple of minutes there," he leaned up against the railing. "But you're the only person I know who trips over her own two feet like that." He reached out to ruffle her hair, as if he was ten and she was seven again.

She laughed again, dodging his mussing fingers. "Yeah, I…"

The awkwardness caught up with her.

As always, he caught her and pulled her back into the conversation. "You here for the holiday?"

"Yeah, the holiday _s_ , I guess," she shrugged.

"More than two days this time?"

"Yeah," she kicked at the stupid brick with her foot. "For a while, actually. I'm not entirely sure how long. Haven't really had time to look for a job, or anything."

Grant let out a low whistle. "Look for a job? I never thought we'd see the day little Cameron Anne came stumbling back from the big city."

She grimaced, and his grin faltered a bit, as if he realized that he'd struck a nerve.

"Well it's good to see you back, hopefully for good. Matt's dancing in his grave right now." He shifted up straighter. "And hey, good thing you're back, cause Z's really paying for his raising right now, if you know what I mean."

Cammie snapped back into the present from the place she'd been zoned out in.

"No. What do you mean?"

"Yeah, she's really gotten to be a handful, and now she's into all that ballet shit." He laughed and shook his head, glancing back to check on his brother and the boat. "Zach doesn't know fuck about ballet, but you were always Miss Twinkle Toes, even though you can't even walk anytime else, so—"

He turned and caught the look on her face.

"Cam?"

"Who's gotten to be a handful?"

"Elle."

Cammie just stared, wondering why he expected that to clarify anything. Grant's eyes widened to the size of saucers.

Cammie had seen Grant Newman in compromising situations—hell, she'd walked in on him losing his virginity to Bex Baxter at his tenth-grade end-of-year dance. But she'd never seen him look quite so uncomfortable as that moment, standing in his bright yellow rain gear, hair whitened by saltwater and cheeks chapped by wind.

"Oh shit. You don't know."

"What do you mean, I don't know?" The pieces were coming together in her mind—the pictures of the little girl in Zach's house, the lack of wedding ring.

"Don't you have Facebook or something?"

"No. I try to stay away from social media. It's gossip city, out there on the internet, and—what don't I know, Grant? Is Zach divorced? Did something happen to his sister? Did she have a baby?"

"No, Catherine didn't." He shuddered. "And God, let's hope she never procreates."

They stood for a second, and Cammie felt near-hysterics. Was he going to say it, or was he going to make her ask? 

"El's Zach's daughter, Cam. Fuck. Ellie. Eleanor. You didn't know?"

Cammie felt like the ground was opening up beneath her. "What do you mean, I didn't know?" She knew that she was shrill, and that they were drawing attention, but she didn't care. "Does it look like I knew?"

"Joe and Rachel didn't—Abby didn't blab her big mouth?"

"No, I… They don't tell me much about Zach."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit. I— Is she… Is his wi—"

"Yo Grant, it's time to go!"

Cammie could have shoved the youngest Newman brother off of his barnacled boat and into the icy bay. Grant glanced over his shoulder at his brother, who was obviously just trying to save Grant from whatever situation he'd run into with a crazy chick on the boardwalk.

Cammie was sure he'd turn back and at least explain—explain why and how Zach had come to have a daughter, be missing a wife, and how Cammie was supposed to help with the ballet situation.

Grant's brother checked his phone—what was his _name? Jesus_ , not knowing things was becoming frustrating— and waved frantically, yelling something about the weather report, and this time looking more than a little bit sincere.

"Damn. Cam, I've gotta go. Listen, it was good seeing you. Don't be a stranger."

This time he did pull her into a hug, fishy gear and all. He pressed a firm kiss to the top of her head, squeezing her tight. "He needs you," he whispered, then let her go, turning and striding back down the dock. With one last wave, he jumped into his boat, cranked up the motor, and was gone.


	6. mother of starlight tears

**i started this story with an idea in mind, in the middle of a time in my life much like cammie** **s here. i** **m still there. zach** **s in a place in his life** **a widower with a young, ballet-loving girl** **that my dad was in when he was about zach** **s age here. and now one of the women i love most in this world, one who has taught me what it is to be young, courageous, and light-filled in this dark world, is suddenly in the same position at only thirty years old, but without a child to hold onto the memory of the man she loved more than life itself. i don** **t understand why people have to die. i don** **t understand how the flu can take the life of a six and a half foot tall, perfectly healthy thirty four year old man, who always has a smile for everyone. i don** **t understand.**

 **i don** **t have much else to say here, other than right now, after the past couple of weeks, this story is too close to home. i** **ve had this written since new year** **s, so i thought i** **d give you what i** **ve got. i** **ll keep trying. in the meantime, call someone you don** **t call enough and tell them that you love them, and that they mean the world to you.**

 **you all mean the world to me. much love, inez.**

" _we die to each other daily._

 _what we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them._

 _and they have changed since then._

 _to pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken._

 _We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger._

 _\- t.s. eliot_

" _the cocktail party"_

She was right; her mom _was_ glad to see her and _was_ upset that she'd slept through the welcome. She was on edge, three cups of coffee into working herself up when Cammie found her, sitting at the breakfast nook table, staring at the half-finished crossword that Cammie'd given up on the night before like it was some kind of ghost—an apparition from years past, when Matthew and Cam would sit at that very table, and he would teach her words that were only useful in the realm of puzzles.

"Hi, Ma."

Rachel looked startled to actually see her daughter there, as if she was surprised and unconvinced that her daughter would really come back for the holiday, muchless days before it actually happened.

"Cam."

Cammie gestured at the crossword, at her mother's coffee. She shifted on her feet, wondering when her relationship with her mother had become so unhealthy and uncomfortable. They'd always been more like best friends than mother and daughter.

"You were exhausted last night. Abby, Joe, and I thought it was best to let you rest."

She turned, walked into the kitchen to pour her own cup of coffee taking the long moment of silence to let the warmth permeate her being, straight down to the bones that were still chilled from Grant's words, which she didn't dare analyze too closely. Not right now.

"It's been a long few days, yes," Rachel nodded somewhat mechanically. Then quietly, with a hint of betrayal, she pushed her cup across the tabletop. "You should have woken me."

"We saved you some soup."

It wasn't a good excuse, but it was something. She'd known that her mother would be upset with her, would be a shell of herself the day after. Some things weren't even solved by a new husband and by new happiness.

"Thanks."

It was hollow, and not really meant. They stared at each other for a long moment. Cammie hesitated, then pulled out a chair, joining her mother at the table.

"Do you… Do you want me to warm some for you? I made the rolls that we always—"

"No, not right now. It's too early. I had a bagel just a bit ago."

"Ah."

Rachel took a long, deep breath, looked as if she didn't know what to say and had way too much to say at the same time. She took another sip of her coffee, and when the cup came down and her face was unobscured, she was completely transformed—a mother glad to see her prodigal daughter home, not a shell of a woman who lost the love of her life at one time, years ago.

"Where've you been?"

"South Harlem, mainly. It's hard to want to go down to the Financial District this time of year. Too many tourists. Too much snow sludge. I did go by the Rockefeller, though, to see the tree once. They've started putting it up earlier and earlier, you know? I swear, it's because Hobby Lobby's started putting their Christmas decorations out in July. Soon, it's going to be the North Pole down here—Christmas, year-round. For godssakes, it's not even Thanksgiving ye—"

"Cammie."

Rachel's hands were warm closing over hers, which had been twisting her coffee cup, piddling with the pencil she'd left by the crossword. She'd been rambling.

"Yeah?"

"This morning. Where'd you go this morning?"

"Ah." This time, Cammie hesitated to answer. She took a drink of her coffee, glanced down at the crossword for a moment, debating how much she wanted to divulge.

"57-Down. " _Turnstiles_ crooner." Joel. Billy Joel. Don't know how I didn't catch that last night."

"57-Across. "Springer with political agenda?" 'Jerrymandering.'"

"You're right," Cammie chuckled, pushing the paper across for her mother to fill in the blanks.

It was an unspoken rule amongst the Morgan-Solomon-Goode-Cameron-Townsend households. No one took writing credits for someone else's crossword solution. By the time one was finished, it'd usually be full of different fonts of handwriting. Cammie's loopy and light, her mom's organized and teacher-like, Joe and Townsend's both nearly indecipherable doctor-esque scribble, Abby's similar, with even sharper angles, and Zach's, the most distinctive of them all, small, deliberate, and exact. The writing of an architect, Joe'd always said.

Cammie rose, grabbing a bagel from the breadbox, popping it into the toaster, sliding the jar of apple butter across the counter and popping the canning seal expertly. Anything to keep her hands busy.

"Ah."

It was as much an answer to Rachel's previous question as an actual statement would have been.

"You've seen him, then."

Cammie shrugged, refilling her coffee, already wary of a migraine, and shooting her mother a 'you're cut off' look when she held her own cup out in a silent request for more. Instead, Cammie filled up the tea kettle and put it on to boil.

Tea would be good. It would calm them both.

"Twice, yeah. Last night with his mother and his wife. This morning, when your dear sister tricked me into running errands for her." Cammie shuddering involuntarily, and judged the look on her mother's face quickly—very quickly—and decided that no, she would definitely not be mentioning what happened after seeing Zach. Her conversation with Grant would be hers, and hers alone.

Rachel looked stricken.

"His mother and his…"

"Wife, I'm assuming? I'm not entirely sure, given that I never was invited to the wedding and all," she smirked, a bitter, unsettling look that probably revealed more about her mental state than she wanted to admit to her mother in that moment. Then, under her breath, she added a quiet, "not that I blamed him," because she couldn't do that to him—pretend to place the blame for everything that happened on him.

It was quiet for a long bit while Cammie prepared her bagel and ate it slowly, savoring the perfectly seasoned taste of home that came with Blackthorne Farms Apple Butter.

"I don't know who it was, but it wasn't his wife," Rachel stood, moving the kettle off the burner right before the steam made it whistle. "Are you sure it wasn't Catherine?"

"Catherine doesn't have black hair and a perfect figure. He wouldn't have his hand on Catherine's back."

Rachel raised a brow at the evident jealousy in her daughter's tone, and rather than point how uncalled for it was—how unreasonable, and unfair—she merely shook her head.

"Definitely not Macey. Macey had light brown hair. Curly, like yours in summer when you don't straighten it."

"Maybe she dyed it."

"She didn't."

"How do you know—"

"Cameron." Rachel was sharp, sharper than she'd been toward Cammie in years. She knew her daughter well—knew what she was doing, with that expression of hatred, of self-pity. She was digging. And, if Cammie admitted it, she knew better than to look to her mother for gossip.

"There are some things that you don't know, but you'll have to figure out for yourself."

Cammie understood the unspoken end of that statement, even if her mother was too kind to say it outloud. _If you bother sticking around for long enough to trudge through everything you_ _ve missed_.'

Cammie finished her bagel in silence, wondering how she'd managed to royally screw up everything already, when she'd only been in town for twelve hours.

"I didn't mean to be pushy, Mom. I'm sorry. It just hurts."

Rachel's expression softened, and she reached up, tucking a piece of loose hair behind her daughter's ear. "I know that, Cam. But sometimes we make decisions that we regret, even if we refuse to admit it. And sometimes those decisions stare us in the face for the rest of our lives."

Cammie knew her mother well enough to understand that this was no longer just about Zach and Cammie's hurt. This was about Rachel, letting her husband go out in their boat in a storm to save Joe. This was about the pain that she faced every day after losing the love of her life, only to find happiness again with the very man who'd taken him from her.

Again, Cammie felt shame wash over her face. She was twenty-six, and was acting like a fifteen-year-old. Something about Roseville did that to her—pulled her back into a time warp and made her feel like she was forever stuck in her teen years

It was time to step out of that. To step up and face her ghosts head-on.

"Abby said she needs help with the Thanksgiving parade tonight."

"Yeah, mainly just helping with the cider stand. It's always insane."

"Does Zach not do that?"

Rachel chuckled, shaking her head. "It's hard to be a fireman and have…other vested interests in the parade, and run a cider stand all at the same time. He just donates the goods."

"He always said he'd never be caught dead selling cider," Cammie chuckled.

"Well, he sells enough of it to keep the farm afloat, at least," Rachel joined in on her humor,"That, or he's got way more architecture gigs on the side than he's letting on."

"Still drawing buildings, eh?"

"Well, Cam… Yeah. But that's not really my story to tell."

With that, Rachel dunked her teabag one last time, and headed off upstairs. "It's good to have you back, Cam," she called over her shoulder. "Abby says it may be for good this time. Just be careful who you let fall back in love with you."

Her daughter stood, aimless, restless, in the kitchen, staring at the last place she'd seen her mother before she'd disappeared up the stairs.

No, there definitely wasn't danger of falling back in love—she wasn't at all sure of what her mother meant.

Cavan trotted into the kitchen, startling her out of her stupor. The big sixty-pound dog was still a new sight in an old place. Sometimes it was hard to reconcile the past to the present. He nudged her hand for a moment, and then after a pat on the head, nosed open the back door like a pro, escaping out into the cold morning.

"Well at least shut it behind yourself," Cammie muttered with a small smile, carrying her own tea back to the table.

"Let's see… 15 Across. 'Could have beens?'" She laughed a humorless laugh. " _Regrets_."


End file.
